


Arms Together

by prodigalsanyo



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prodigalsanyo/pseuds/prodigalsanyo
Summary: Hi, I'm Malcolm* Bright** and I'll screw myself up before you can love me hurr durr durr.*Malcolm:  fated to be with someone who he's pretty much always loved.**Bright:  Buuuuttttttt, when has this kid ever done what he's supposed to?
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 11
Kudos: 31





	Arms Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/gifts).



> Happy belated Birthday Caitie my lady! This turned out to be more emotional and extremely wholesome instead of my trademark porns. *gasp*

Detective Tarmel makes his arrest of Ottavio Fosco for murder two of victim Percival Glyde. The detective clears the case, chipping away at the dog pile of unsolved homicides, which will gratify Lieutenant Arroyo. Malcolm asks Detective Tarmel out for an impromptu early dinner closer to the hour when the detective has his shift change. 

“Give me an hour of your time, tops. You shouldn’t go home like this, JT. You’re going to have a drink and a meal that you can’t taste. It’s going to piss off Tally,” says Malcolm.

“Wifey cooked tonight. How about you have dinner with us?” counters Tarmel.

Malcolm finds himself in the Brooklyn residence. Tally plates up dinner for the three of them. She waves off all apologies for Malcolm's last minute addition to their meal time.

"Dumb of me to hope that the victim's best friend, Fosco, didn't do it. Suspect crying because they were drunk and Fosco was raving about blowing his own head off and waving around victim's gun," says Tarmel. Due to his darker skin, the area beneath his eyes are discolored like old bruises.

"You've seen senseless murders," says Malcolm. He can guess the motivation for Tarmel's perturbed mood, but it's important for the man to unload.

"Fosco wasn't playing games. He gave me his statement when he could talk. The shock took a couple days to wear off," says Tarmel. "When Fosco come out of it, he confessed to putting a slug in his soulmate's brain. They started dating and had a fight."

"Oh my God. His own soulmate? And he didn't die?" utters Tally. Malcolm reads her shock, then fear and then her empathy stirring up sorrow.

"Yeah, they're going to find that guy hanging from his cell or bleeding in his cot," says Tarmel. "Fosco is on suicide watch but he'll never forget."

"You two are soulmates," says Malcolm. He covers his forehead to hide his arched brow.

“Did you tell Malcolm about us, babe?” asks Tally.

“No. He profiled us,” says Tarmel. 

Tally looks impressed while Tarmel frowns at Malcolm. "You got a problem with how we are, Bright?"

"I'm very pleasantly surprised. Soul bonding is quite a dated arrangement and no longer in line with the modern mode of independent love matches," explains Malcolm. 

"Many combat veterans believe in a higher power, as a causality justifying survival outcomes. In that respect, veterans are drawn to the appeal of marrying the person who is their pre-destined mate. However, you do not often volunteer details of your service. Perhaps as a way of distancing yourself from how civilians perceive the military, it's possible you would choose your partner randomly, exercising your free will and the pursuit of happiness which you once played a role in defending," says Malcolm.

"Dude, did I ask you to presume?" gripes Tarmel. It's more hot air than anger.

"Marrying your soulmate is very old fashioned. Nobody but their grandparents do that anymore," agrees Tally. "But look at our soul mark. Normal doesn't begin to describe our relationship."

"That's what's the best about us. I wouldn't be right if anything happened to you. For that drunk fool to blow out his soulmate's brains... too close to home," says Tarmel. "I worry about if I get mad and put my hands on you."

From standing, Tally stoops forward and winds her arm around her husband's shoulder. The sleeve of her blouse hitches up, revealing the black lettering of a partial phrase which reads: "Holy shit, what." Tarmel’s hand obscures the rest of it. 

Tarmel cradles his wife’s forearm, his unbuttoned sleeve sliding down. Two words are inked into his skin: "a dork."

Tally bears the beginning of their shared soul mark and Tarmel completes them. If both of them were to show Malcolm their entire arm, the phrase would be identical on Tally and her husband. A person is born with their partial mark. When they encounter their mate, both of them verbalizing out loud the correctly joined clauses establishes the infamous lifelong bond.

Tarmel lifts his arm and shakes his fist. "I grew up literally labeled 'a dork' because of this stupid soul mates thing."

"You think I didn't catch flak for my soul mark? No one took me seriously ever. Cuz holy shit, what," quips Tally before her laughter ripples.

"I didn't think I'd see a swear word in something as sacred as the typical soul mark. The phrasing which connects you to your mate sets the tone for your relationship," admits Malcolm. He pulls off his suit jacket and rolls up his sleeve cuff.

Tarmel and his wife Tally read the writing on Malcolm's skin.

"Damn, son," says Tarmel. He purses his mouth.

"Honey, get this man another beer," says Tally. She swipes her husband's bottle and tips it at Malcolm.

* * *

When he sleeps, Malcolm dreams about when he is thirteen and his legs hurt all the time and his mother takes him shopping for shoes and pants every weekend that he is home from boarding school.

Gil notices when he takes Malcolm with him for a drive in the Le Mans. Unlike in years prior, Gil trades in his blues for plainclothes as a detective sergeant.

“What’s going on with you, kid? You love cruising around,” says Gil. 

Vanilla drips down Malcolm’s hand, runs along the wafer cone, and splashes onto his loafers which look odd on Malcolm who’s already outgrown his khaki pants. Gil can see the boy’s argyle socks.

“Gil, what do you think about soul mates?” asks Malcolm.

“Your soulmate is who God chooses to be in your life forever. I will reserve judgment until I finally get to meet them,” says Gil.

“You haven’t met her, yet?” asks Malcolm.

Gil smirks and ruffles Malcolm’s hair. “What, you sayin’ I’m too old to meet new people? That I couldn’t win out this late in the game?”

Malcolm’s lip quirks. “Do you want to meet them?”

“I think, after losing too many of my friends, and letting my heart go through the wringer a few times, my soul mate would be getting a raw deal with me,” says Gil. “But I’m allowed to think that because I am getting on in years. I get back pain almost every day, it’s appalling.”

Gil watches Malcolm wrap up his ice cream cone and throw it into the bin. Malcolm licks the back of his fingers where the vanilla runs sticky. Gil cups Malcolm’s shoulder. He bites the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing when Malcolm squirms out of it. Gil suddenly understands his old man.

“What do you know about soul mates, city boy? Let me guess, all these bodies in New York and you run into your soulmate crossing the state line,” says Gil.

“There’s someone I like at school,” says Malcolm. Suddenly, his belly aching is starkly clear to Gil.

“How about we take a walk, clear your head, and you tell me what happened?” offers Gil. They park near the Brooklyn Bridge. There’s enough blue sky left in the day that Gil won’t have to rush Malcolm back to his mother.

“Nothing happened,” Malcolm swears. He fidgets with his collar and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pensive from the pressure of his warm skin pressing his own lips. 

“You kissed,” says Gil.

Malcolm licks his lips, pressing them into a thin colorless line while his cheeks flame up.

“They kissed me,” corrects Malcolm. “I let myself get suckered into sneaking out past curfew with their friends. I don’t want to hear it, Gil, not if you want me to be honest with you. We didn’t get caught. I never did it again.”

“I was your age once. Far be it from me to narc on you,” says Gil. “If no one got hurt and no serious crimes went down, I’d leave it alone.”

Malcolm appears reassured. “Okay. Thank you.”

They’re both watching the dogs chase tails on some grass when Malcolm unburdens himself.

“After the kiss, we showed each other our soul marks,” says Malcolm. “I needed to know if we had more in common than the fact that both of our dads were criminals.”

He looks up at Gil, eyes brimming. “If I had waited a bit longer, his dad would have been released from prison. He would’ve drifted towards other kids who he shared normal interests with, who are quote unquote ‘hip to his jive.’ I would’ve figured out that we weren’t even good friends when we stopped associating with one another.”

“I suppose when you get broken as a child, you’ll bare your soul to anyone,” says Malcolm, disdain twisting his sharp words. He’s a melodramatic teenager.

“I’m sorry, kid. I wish I could say tough luck, but first love rarely works out,” says Gil.

“Vijay was not my first crush. Not that it matters!” says Malcolm. He coughs and then throws his hands up to the air in defeat.

“Maybe your boyfriend wasn’t the first guy you noticed. But you did let him in and it didn’t work out. We all experience that heartache and disappointment,” says Gil.

“I know that,” says Malcolm. Gil looks at him and sees a boy who’s too young.

“Wanna know why I’m not gunning after and chasing down my special person?” asks Gil.

“Yes! Tell me your deepest, darkest secret,” says Malcolm, showing a more eager level of interest.

“I won’t,” says Gil. 

Malcolm blinks at him, perplexed. “Are you going to tell me or were you just messing with me a little?”

“I won’t,” repeats Gil. He shows Malcolm the dumb little phrase colored darkly on his arm like it’s been burned there.

Malcolm's dental braces merrily gleam on his top teeth. “That’s it, really? Is that all you have to go on? That sucks for you!”

“Oh, trust me. I never heard the end of it from my ina. She said I was a born brat any time I disagreed with her,” says Gil.

“Mine’s worse,” claims Malcolm. 

“That’s what you think, kid. If your soul mark is more than five letters, you got more than I did,” says Gil. “What stinks more than this? ‘I won’t.’”

Malcolm silently shows Gil with all the confidence of a player yanking the best card from up his sleeve.

Gil reads it aloud. “Give up on him?”

Suddenly they step away from one another, Malcolm’s right hand shakily clutching his left elbow while Gil shakes his right arm like it’s on fire. When Gil realizes how ridiculous he looks freaking out next to a kid, he stops and finally looks at his soul mark. It changes. 

“I won’t give up on him,” says Gil, relaxing when he does so. His expression mellows into undeniable relief.

Malcolm turns practically green. He stoops over and loses his lunch in public. Gil rubs Malcolm's back and thumbs at the brown hair on his neck.

When a person encounters their mate, both of them saying out loud the correctly joined clauses establishes the infamous lifelong bond. Of course, there are special exceptions. Malcolm bites his tongue and digs in his heels. He won’t complete their bond.

“It’s okay, kid. You’re going to be okay,” says Gil. He buys water from a hot dog vendor within their line of sight. Malcolm gulps the water, but most of it dribbles onto the walkway.

“I don’t know how us being...” Swish and spit. “... linked can be good for either one of us. This is a nightmare. Take it back!”

No sooner does Malcolm pause in ranting than does he feel terrible all over as though each rejecting word he speaks makes him sicker. “I have plans, Gil. University. Quantico. I won’t-- no, I can’t.” He’s terrified which sharpens the anger and guilt and inadequacy which he holds closer to his heart every time he looks in the mirror.

"Calm the hell down, Bright. No one can make you do anything without going through me first," says Gil. He glares in anger. "Do you think I would force you into any situation without taking your feelings into account? Your safety? You're a child for Christ's sake!"

"No, Gil. You wouldn’t hurt me. You’re the one..." Malcolm begins to say. His breathing hitches and it sounds like an episode of asthma.

"Malcolm? Malcolm!" Gil yells, as Malcolm topples into a dead faint.

* * *

What truly joins Malcolm and Gil is their tacit agreement to keep their connection incomplete and unknown to anyone else. Gil doesn't tell Jessica who is ruthlessly protective of her family and would interfere with their friendship, if not terminate it altogether. Malcolm forever holds his peace when Jackie and Gil make their vows before God and seal their marriage with a kiss.

“Kid, this is awful selfish of me but I do want to be with Jackie. My decision to marry her will impact not just me. There’s gonna be consequences that you and I won’t foresee,” says Gil to Malcolm on one of their outings. Malcolm anticipates completing his junior year of boarding school.

“Oh my God, congrats Gil! You totally have my blessings. There’s worse people you could marry,” says Malcolm, brow raised with his self-deprecating smile. He's whip smart and just about as unforgiving on himself.

“Jesus, Bright. Quit beating yourself up over our situation. For the love of God, don’t pass out on me again,” says Gil. He lightly cuffs Malcolm's chin.

“Does Jackie know?” asks Malcolm.

Gil tugs at his ear and thoughtfully runs his knuckle on the bottom of his chin. “She knows that I found my soulmate. But if she ever asks who it is, I won't lie to her. She’ll want to talk to you when she finds out.”

“Can you wait until I’m in Boston before she has to absolutely know?” quips Malcolm.

The joke’s on both of them when Jackie, on her deathbed, pops the question. Gil is home on family medical leave. Malcolm hops on a red eye flight from Washington state after wrapping up a fatal kidnapping assigned to him as a field agent. The criminal targets soulmate couples, kidnaps someone’s mate for a ransom, and then injects them with slow acting poison before their release. Once Federal agents apprehend the profit thrill killer, Malcolm grabs his carry-on, destination JFK.

Jackie looks between her boys. They show her the soul marks when she asks. She’s tired but she’s got a good grip on Gil’s right arm crossed over Malcolm’s, each man holding her hand for what could be the last time.

“You idiots really only have each other.” She says Malcolm’s name, nearly scaring the piss out of him. “Don’t wait too long.”

“And you,” says Jackie to Gil, her voice turning sharp, “You know this spoiled kid can’t always have it his way. He’s going to run away on you if you let him.”

“I won't,” says Gil. Pain emanates from his eyes, the lines in his skin taut from the smile he forces.

“You better live up to your word,” says Jackie. Her laugh hurts so much that they’re all shaking from it.

Malcolm waits until the funeral to distance himself. He’s not avoiding Gil’s calls, but he doesn’t jump onto every opportunity to visit NYC and see his family and face Gil. He just can’t, not with the bloodstained bodies stacked in his mind and his unit chief fault finding his work and certain co-workers besides Agent Swanson adding fuel to the moment when Malcolm is inevitably fired. He’s been alone for three years when Gil head hunts him for the criminal profiler gig.

When he rolls over from his dreams, Malcolm narrows his blurry eyes at the words etched on his left arm which unfortunately aren't a figment of his imagination. He would prefer a monster jumping out and stabbing him than his worst fears realized through someone as important to him as Gil Arroyo.

_give up on him._

Some days, Malcolm allows what's written to affect his sense of autonomy and he gives into the sense of helplessness. Most days, there is such anger in his body that nothing will sit in his stomach and nourish him, leaving him only bitter fumes to fuel his actions. Every day, Gil crosses his mind. The words stick in his throat, the ones which Malcolm dare not say.

_I won't_

_I won't_

He won't speak the words which will shackle Gil to him. It's a lifelong sentence. 

Malcolm buttons his sleeves and buckles his watch while the TV is running. He’s almost ready for work. His sister Ainsley sounds almost zippy as she breaks in the morning news.

“Justina Roberts, 15, goes missing in the Bronx. If her name sounds familiar, it should! Justina broke the internet when she was revealed to be the soul mate of pop powerhouse Rice Volta. Hashtag soul2soul.”

A sound bite from Rice Volta plays. “Ay, yo, I wasn’t lookin for serious. Kicked off a duet challenge using lyrics based on my soul mark. When I got Justina’s entry, I sang her words and something happen. It hit, you know?”

Ainsley’s reporting resumes. “In a series of escalating threads, Rice Volta’s fan base, Volt Dwellers, uncovered the significance of Rice’s interaction with their 15 year old peer and fellow Volt Dweller Justina. Roberts deleted her social media accounts in the backlash of being outed as Rice’s soul mate. Investigators tracking Roberts’ whereabouts cannot confirm at this time whether the subsequent death threats or invasive cyber acts against Roberts is related to her disappearance. Details of a personal reward for anyone whose tip leads to the safe recovery of Justina Roberts can be found on Volta’s Insta page @legitbrownrice.”

Malcolm sees the flurry of twitter and IG notifications on his phone which parrot news quotes from the high profile disappearance of a pop star’s underage love interest. His lips once more curl in contempt over the issue of soul mates. He firmly secures the cuff links on his jacket sleeve before heading to his next crime scene.

* * *

The Roberts address is a sturdy Bronx duplex with potted plants hanging in partial shading and digitally printed pictures outnumbering the irreplaceable framed photos developed from film. Instead of crisp aesthetics and smart house appliances and electronics, school certificates and achievement slips with gold or silver stickers clutter the peeling eggshell wallpaper. More hardcover books line the shelves than DVDs and knick knacks.

While the place is untidy, it’s not the crime scene. Malcolm passes through the kitchen with dishes clogging both sinks and he joins the police, detectives, and forensics attendants in the backyard.

Gil’s wearing a tan microsuede blazer. Malcolm’s surprised that Gil picked a lighter color than usual for a crime scene after the decades he’s spent traipsing through blood sometimes pooled an inch thick. Gil quickly slides his phone into his front pocket when he sees Malcolm. The screen glows through the subtly patterned fabric, black and white wool fibers so finely twisted that Gil’s trousers look gray from further away.

“Hey, Gil. How was the salmon?” greets Malcolm.

“I was lucky to have coffee,” says Gil. “I wouldn’t have fish swimming in my stomach this early.”

“Glad to see you had a good night,” says Malcolm. He doesn’t comment on the sharp dinner clothes which Gil wears or how the top two buttons are loose. He pretends not to notice Gil crossing his arms, rubbing his goatee, and the long blink. “Why didn’t you call me when police began processing?”

“It wasn’t my case until one of the vics died in critical care. La Vonn Roberts sustained blunt force trauma to the occipital. When I interviewed him late last night, his injury made his vision black out. He didn’t have a description of who attacked him in his own yard,” says Gil.

Malcolm inspects the grass, sees the blood and the cigarette butts. “Do these belong to the late Mr. Roberts?”

“Yes. He was still holding his carton when medics arrived. His wife, Becky, is not a suspect. She was inside with a detective from Missing Persons. Detective Sergeant Jeffords is helping their family to locate their daughter Justina, initially believed to have run away. Jeffords spoke with Becky and left without incident. With the death of Justina’s father…”

“You’re leaning towards a kidnapping,” says Malcolm. “Majority of missing persons, even in New York, resolve within two days. If Justina doesn’t have a reason to leave home, then someone could be keeping her. Considering the lack of ransom, we could be looking at a child predator. A particularly arrogant one to target a family in a suburban-esque neighborhood.”

“Not bad for a hood in the Bronx, don’t ya think?” Dani approaches them, waving at the sizable house with the trimmed lawn, flowering shrubs, and a large tree with a tire swing. She’ll never let Malcolm forget his high brow assumptions.

“I’m not feeling the vinyl siding, but home ownership has never been my thing. Mansions are overrated. Tricky phone lines, home security conundrums, killer pests coming out of the walls, basement issues. No, thank you,” says Malcolm.

“Maybe if you could pick up a hammer without hurting yourself,” says Dani, raising her brow.

“I’m not too shabby with a crowbar,” says Malcolm. She punches him lightly.

“You kids play nice in the yard. The grown men will be inside working this case. I’ll see what I can get from Sergeant Jeffords,” says Gil.

“She didn’t run away,” says Dani. She takes in the house with the greenery. “She had her daddy and a good home and went to a safe school.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” says Malcolm. Movement catches his eye. A woman on an elevated patio overlooking the family property sees the police and scurries inside once spotted.

“Why do they always run? She's day drinking in her robe, how far she go,” mutters Dani. She leaves Malcolm to go canvassing.

Malcolm is lying in Justina’s bed, tired but not in any danger of dozing off with the poster of Rice Volta, pop star, pouting from the ceiling. He scrolls through cached images of the online fangirl hate which plagued the Roberts’ family prior to Justina’s disappearance. His screen brightness dims from low power so he shuffles closer to the white nightstand to plug in his phone.

The absence of a charging cable gives him pause. He sees that the wireless router is installed. There’s a mouse pad on the homework desk but no mouse and no laptop. Before he can text Gil about the whereabouts of Justina’s electronics, he gets a call.

“Hey bro. Can you let me inside?” It’s Ainsley.

“I’m not at home. Working. Can this wait?” says Malcolm.

“I know! I mean, can you let me in through the gate? I’m under the big oak tree. No cameras rolling, don’t worry. I just want to give people a glimpse,” says Ainsley.

“How did you find out about the murder?” says Malcolm. He hears a sharp intake over the phone.

“Mr. Roberts passed away? How sad. My source is a good friend to the parents but they only mentioned the ambulance. I’ll make sure to state the family’s need for privacy at the end,” says Ainsley.

“Ains, you can’t discuss Mr. Robert’s death with the public,” says Malcolm.

“Why the heck not? The more outraged the public, the less likely that this tragedy will fade into last week’s news,” says Ainsley.

“If Justina’s alive, consider how she will feel learning about her father’s death from the news. You’re going to end up hurting an innocent girl. Wait a couple days for the attacker to contact Justina’s mother and make their demand,” says Malcolm.

“Hmmm. What’s that lady’s name you work with?” asks Ainsley.

“Dani?” says Malcolm. “You’re barking up the wrong tree if you think she’s gonna give, Ains.”

“Thanks, bro!” Ainsley ends the call. Malcolm's annoyance would cross over into anger if she weren't his baby sister. If he didn't understand the role of baby sisters in their older brother's universe.

Gil walks in on Malcolm who has a panda bear curled in his arm and rummaging through Justina’s many purses and totes hanging on her closet door.

“I like the paisley,” quips Gil. Malcolm drops the multicolored messenger bag.

“Do the police have Justina’s laptop?” says Malcolm.

“Actually, that’s exactly why Sergeant Jeffords was with the Roberts family on the night of the attack. He searched Justina’s room with her mother and father present. Mr. Roberts stepped out for smokes. Mrs. Roberts gave Jeffords coffee before he left. She advised him to check with the principal about Justina’s locker at school,” reports Gil.

“And…” says Malcolm.

“No laptop,” says Gil. Malcolm’s unsatisfied with his answer but also not surprised.

“But listen here, Bright. Justina was missing for hours without her parents suspecting a thing because nothing was missing in her room.”

“The attacker must’ve came back to get her laptop,” says Malcolm. He leaps onto Justina’s bed once more and stares at the poster.

“You’d think that with the advent of a GPS on every cell phone that a lot less kids could just go poof,” says Gil.

“The phones are another point of access for a young girl to disappear into,” says Malcolm. “Anyone can reach. A virtual catalog for any predator. My father could fit one girl in a box but now you can have thousands of girls filtered and sorted in your pocket. Who is more vulnerable than a teenager alone in their room?”

“I dodged a bullet then, not having any children,” says Gil, leaning on the door frame.

“You had to put up with me. Did you not?” says Malcolm.

Gil’s eyes crinkle. “What are you talking about? I had the world’s best rookie with me on stakeouts. Eagle eyes and an uncanny ability to get on every one of my nerves until I was too irked to sleep on my dash.”

“Then how’d you acquire all those grays? Don’t tell me that I still keep you up at night,” says Malcolm. He licks his bottom lip and bites down to shut himself up. 

“Tell you after we catch the deplorable criminal,” says Gil.

He regrets his teasing when Gil straightens up and backs out of the child’s room. Malcolm doesn’t need a soul bond to know that Gil struggled for years to be the man whom a scared and young Malcolm needed. Gil somehow managed without another adult to limit his influence over a significantly younger soul mate. Despite being in no position for that support to be reciprocated by the one whom Gil was bound to protect.

In order for Malcolm to do his job, he has to pretend for the both of them that Gil’s appraisal of him reclined in bed doesn’t send thrills up his spine and his fingers curling into the sheets.

* * *

Police have no choice but to conclude that Mr. Robert’s killer stole Justina’s laptop on the night of the murder. While cops tear up beds of flowers for the murder weapon, Malcolm pores through profile pages of every adult who lists her high school as their place of employment. His role is limited before the FBI takes over.

It’s a nightmare at the 16th precinct. From the moment when Rice Volta lands in New York and tweets, the traffic in midtown nosedives. His admirers assemble within hours with colorful posters, wearing Volta’s hoodie, shirts, hats. Volta’s logo, crossed lightning bolts, oscillates frantically when they spot him. People throw rice that’s been dyed in neon colors.

Dani and JT are briefly amused by the footage of Ainsley rebuffed by Rice Volta before he enters their precinct. He is of average height, lean, muscular, and his skin looks really nice in government issued lighting. Malcolm notes that Volta’s head is tilted back, chin lifted, moving languorously, unblinking focused eye contact and a slight closed lip smile. He straddles a chair, arching and stretching, the sinew in his muscular arm apparent from his slight dehydration. His soul mark, typical of most artists, is longer than one line. 

_What is this life if, full of care,_   
_We have no time to stand and stare_

“Fit threads, papi,” says Volta to Gil. 

“They should fit,” says Gil, frowning. He gets a junior detective to sit down and lavish attention to their visitor. JT gets in a selfie to send to Tally.

By the time Volta leaves, Malcolm in his professional opinion states, “He knows where Justina’s whereabouts are. He may not have murdered her father from L.A., but he’s personally involved in at least one of two misfortunes.”

Dani’s chair squeals as her boots rest on top of screenshots printed from Volta’s phone. “I have to admit, if I were sixteen again, I’d hate Justina. I wouldn’t join up with the online trolls. But I would look up everything about her. Would feel like my mans dumped me for nobody special.”

“Your limbic system can’t distinguish between your so-called real friends and fiction characters, i.e: a performer’s persona. A well articulated hero’s death can trigger a genuine grief response,” says Malcolm. “And when his fans hear that Volta has a soulmate who’s just like them. A young girl who goes to school, dealing with her parents, hyping with friends… it’s hardly fair to all of them. Emotions running high, his fans’ hunger for content escalates when his agency sells tickets.”

“I don’t like it either. His online challenge was targeted at teen girls. Can’t believe his agent let him play around with these girls’ lives like that,” says Dani. “Was your sis crushing on soulless pop stars?”

Malcolm notes how Dani’s demeanor shifts just a tick when she leans forward in her seat. He tucks in his chin ever so slightly and slackens his facial muscles as though bored. In a noncommittal tone, Malcolm says, “Ains took piano lessons because of one Alicia Keys.”

Malcolm turns to his work with a repressed smile when Dani touches her naturally voluminous hair.

Further examination of the crime scene reveals that a boron steel garden trowel with an ash hardwood handle ended La Vonn Roberts’ life. Half buried in pungent manure, only forensics could have detected human blood. The discovery narrows the killer to someone closer to home than not. The FBI agent who takes the high profile Roberts case from Major Crimes interviews Justina’s friends and leans hard into Mrs. Roberts. Gil pushes cold files onto Malcolm and sends a suspicious death his way.

“Insurance will cash out an annuity which amounts to a cool half mill. They were uber soul mates, shared a birthdate,” says Malcolm, reading the file before he sits in for JT’s interview with the widower.

“If this dude really killed his soulmate for pay, he would be in agony, man. Believe me when I say that being separated for too long puts a hurt in you…” JT trails off. “It’s lucky I met Tally after I mustered out.”

After a thoughtful pause, JT asks Malcolm, “You know what’s a bitch about having a soulmate? You’re the only person who can fuck up your connection. And after you fuck up, they’re still with you.” JT’s hand skims the sleeve of his hoodie.

When they sit with the suspect, Malcolm observes their pained movements and the obvious anguish typical of bereaved soul mates. And Malcolm’s verdict? 

“That person is not aggrieved. I don’t know how they fooled the insurance adjuster, but their reactions to their soul mate's death aren't authentic,” says Malcolm. He bothers Gil in his office.

“Lieutenant, any chance you could put me back on a murder case that has a body?” says Malcolm.

“...unis at Penn Station.” It’s the federal agent speaking from Gil’s desk phone. Gil quickly changes the call on his phone from speaker to default, cutting off any private details for Malcolm to hear. Gil makes shooing motions. Malcolm gets lost; he has fact-finding to do.

* * *

Malcolm checks Volta’s page and sees that the pop star has taken a selfie at Newark airport. When he’s thumbing through the insurance fraud case, he has an epiphany. People will do anything for their soulmate, their actions as tenacious as though they were saving their own life.

He sees many flashes of Rice Volta's branded lightning bolts at Union Square Station, but he only needs it to strike once. He finds the girl, Justina Roberts, inserting cash into a self-serve ticket kiosk. Once he confirms which gate she’s boarding, Malcolm purchases the same train ticket.

As he walks down the carpeted aisle, he pauses and looks around. He stops by an empty aisle seat.

“Excuse me, may I sit here?” says Malcolm to a fifteen year old girl. She’s on her laptop with wireless earbuds. Every so often, she turns to the window and wipes at her watery eyes. Occasionally, she tugs at her sleeve but she’s not wearing a wristwatch.

Malcolm gets his chance to speak to her when she stands up to go to the bathroom. Her eyes are sad and tired when she returns to her seat. When she thanks him, Malcolm makes hand motions.

“You alright?” asks Malcolm.

“I’m good, thanks,” she answers. She closes her laptop. “I mean, my dad died. I’ve been such a baby.”

“You’re so young. There’s really no good age for when you lose your father,” says Malcolm. “I lost my father when I was ten years old.” He sucks in air. “And it was my fault, or at the very least, I was responsible.”

“Ten is a baby,” says Justina.

“And look at me now. I’m about to turn thirty,” says Malcolm. “What are you, in high school?”

“I’m not in school. It’s complicated,” says Justina.

“You can always go back home,” says Malcolm.

“No, I can’t. I’m not a little kid anymore,” says Justina.

As she hesitates, Malcolm keeps talking. “I think I know what you’re going through.. When I sent my father to jail, it was when he was about to hurt someone who turned out to be my soulmate. Fate brought us together under the unlikeliest of circumstances. And then fate made me choose between my father and the man I love.”

The train comes to a stop and the conductor announces Penn Station.

“This is me,” says Justina, with a tight smile, sliding her laptop into a messenger bag that still has the plastic ring where she tore off the sales tag. “Take care, okay? You chose your soulmate and now you have to live with it.”

When she exits from the train, Malcolm slips on his coat and tails her along the thoroughfare, bumping shoulders, twirling around wheeled luggage. She heads for the doors leading to the parking lot. Malcolm spots the unmarked police vehicles based on the lights installed on the grill. The detectives are wearing a suit as they idle their engines, waiting. Justina strides quickly but when she spies a large burnt orange van with tinted windows, she’s running.

“Bright, what the hell are you doing?” Oh crap, it’s Gil. Gil slams the car door and catches up to Malcolm in pursuit.

“Justina killed her dad. She had her laptop on the train!” gasps Malcolm.

“Fuck. The kid?” yells Gil. With a naturally longer stride, Gil overtakes Malcolm. Justina’s getaway van burns rubber in a reckless three point turn in a crowded lot. Bystanders scream and move out the way. It happens slowly, Jersey license plate beginning with letter J stamped into Malcolm’s brain. Car exhaust makes him nauseous. The van stops, blockaded by unmarked vehicles. Malcolm misses the moment of collision. 

Gil’s head wound bleeds profusely on the asphalt. Gil isn't moving, save for the lapels of his sport coat flapping from the wind. Malcolm desperately reaches, inches from touching, when Dani pulls him back, kicking and protesting.

“Bright! Bright! Medics are coming!” cries Dani. “We can’t help him.”

Malcolm’s tears fall onto the paved lot soaking up Gil’s blood. Justina is hauled into a police vehicle. People swarm the burnt orange van to take pictures of Rice Volta whose bodyguard or entourage are coaxing him not to fight police. Dani lets him go only when an unconscious Gil is secured to the stretcher.

“Go on, Bright. I’ll meet you,” says Dani. Malcolm kisses her cheek and lunges into the ambulance.

Dani and JT deal with the arrest of the Roberts girl before they, too, join Malcolm in his vigil.

“His body’s not too banged up from the van, but Gil landed on his head. They have to treat the encephalitis and maybe he’ll regain consciousness,” reports Malcolm. He inhales steam from his tea, waiting for the trauma surgeon. JT picks him up for a bear hug when they get the tentative news that Gil is stable but warned that he may not regain consciousness for days. Ainsley brings premium coffee, but Malcolm can’t bring himself to say what happened in face of her many questions.

“I’ll take that,” Dani says, swiping the cup of coffee meant for Malcolm. His face lifts briefly as Dani puts her arm around Ainsley’s shoulder and leads Ainsley out not by force but by firmness and thoughtful answers to Ainsley’s inquiries. He’s cognizant of his mother visiting and pushing him to eat. 

Instead, Malcolm quietly works on the suspicious death case involving possible insurance fraud when daily hospital visits to Gil’s room are permissible. The Roberts case goes to the district attorney’s office and the front of Page Six news. Justina Roberts will be tried as an adult for manslaughter; she's represented by a top-rated defense attorney. Police investigators believe that Justina assaulted her father with a garden trowel on the night when she returned to the house to get her laptop which contains explicit private messages. Volta used his personal assistant to post his Newark airport selfie but was himself inside the getaway van to save Justina. 

And Malcolm feels nothing, can’t feel Gil, can’t scrape up satisfaction when NYPD makes an arrest for the suspect who committed pre-meditated murder, motivated by a soulmates exclusive life insurance policy. As Malcolm supposed, the suspect's true soul mate was in the Caymans while the suspect buried a look alike victim. After five weeks of working through the emptiness left by Gil’s absence, Malcolm decides to go out on a limb. He can’t think of the future after Gil. There isn’t one. He knows it deep in his soul.

Malcolm pulls up the visitors chair with the lumpy cushion. He takes Gil’s right hand, unresponsive in an extended coma. 

“If you’ve been listening in all this time, you’ve probably figured out that you’re stuck with me, your friendly resident pain in the ass,” says Malcolm, smiling tremulously. “Especially after I made it a point to let you go and found excuses to leave you alone. I don’t care if you won’t let me live it down afterwards. Because...”

Malcolm sobs and squeezes Gil’s hand before he bows his head, forehead pressing into Gil’s inner arm. His cries are muffled in the bleached sheets before he can pull himself together. There’s going to be consequences, but he pushes forth anyways.

“Gil Arroyo is the one good thing in my life. And I won’t…” Oh God, please work. “ _I won’t give up on him_.”

He’s weak, too wrung out to pretend that he’s fine, when fingers comb through his unstyled brown hair.

“Kid, what did you do?” asks Gil. He sounds gross, like he’s talking through phlegm. His eyes are unfocused from long disuse. He doesn’t even look like himself with the care nurses shaving off all his facial hair.

“You weren’t going to wake up, not all on your own. I thought you could use some back up,” says Malcolm. He bites his lip as he pushes the cardigan from his shoulder. He’s wearing a tank top underneath. Gil’s eyes track the contours of Malcolm’s bicep; Gil goes misty eyed when he squints at the soul mark which is completely identical to his own.

“Get over here, smart ass,” says Gil. He looks frustrated as Malcolm, with a shit eating smile, kisses Gil’s cheek, his clean shaved jawline, and Gil’s unexpectedly long Cupid’s bow. Gil, by sheer determination, loops a numb arm behind Malcolm’s neck. Malcolm tenses before he accepts a long awaited kiss from the man who he belongs to, always belonged to.


End file.
